Eccentricize

This morning began in a strangely symbolic way. I woke up at 7:00 a.m., earlier than usual, and sat down to write my Morning Pages. My mind felt unusually clear, almost suspended between sleep and wakefulness, as though something deeper was trying to surface.

Lately, I have been reflecting on a metaphor that keeps returning to me: swimming from point A to point B.

The more I think about it, the more I realise that every major life transition resembles crossing a vast body of water. At first, we stand safely on the familiar shore — the version of life we know well. Even if it no longer fulfils us, it still offers comfort, structure, predictability, and identity. Remaining there can feel emotionally safer than venturing into uncertainty.

But eventually, something inside us decides to leave the safe shore behind and start swimming.

The first stage of the journey is deceptively easy. We leave the shore, but we can still see it clearly behind us. Because it remains visible, the temptation to turn back becomes incredibly strong. Familiarity exerts a gravitational pull. We begin questioning ourselves. Was leaving necessary? Was it reckless? Wouldn’t it be easier to return to what is known? We keep looking back.

Yet we keep swimming.

Then comes the most difficult stage — the deep water.

At this point, the shore behind us begins to disappear, but the new land ahead is still invisible. There is no clear destination yet, only endless water stretching in every direction. This is the psychological space where transformation truly happens. It is lonely, disorienting, and deeply uncomfortable. It is scary and disorientating. It is thought provoking and anxiety-inducing.

We may grieve the life we left behind, even if that life kept us stagnant and miserable. Familiar environments often provide a sense of security while quietly limiting growth. We outgrow certain versions of ourselves long before we gather the courage to leave them.

Right now, I feel somewhere in the middle of the crossing — perhaps one-third removed from the old shore and two-thirds away from wherever I am heading next. Returning no longer feels possible. Not because the old life vanished, but because something inside me has already changed.

There is a strange intoxication that comes with entering the unknown: freedom, spaciousness, authenticity, adrenaline, intentionality, and the quiet excitement of becoming someone new.

And with every arm stroke forward, the distant land begins to reveal itself.

Not fully. Not consistently. Sometimes I catch only brief glimpses through the waves — faint contours, shifting colours, hints of a future life slowly materialising in the distance. Then uncertainty rises again and obscures the vision.

But I know the land exists.

I may not yet fully understand its depth, texture, or atmosphere, but I can feel its presence pulling me forward more strongly than the safety of the old shore pulls me back.

Perhaps that is what faith in ourselves really is: continuing to swim long before the destination becomes visible.

For now, the task is simple.

Keep swimming.
Keep rowing.
Keep moving toward the unknown.

And trust that one day the distant outline on the horizon will become your new, better home.